


Consensus

by saboten



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, cold war at cambride police station, friends to non-speaking-terms to lovers, unhealthy communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 18:47:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14503233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saboten/pseuds/saboten
Summary: “We don’t know when reinforcements arrive.”When, not if. Stranded and with their only shot at calling home a broken communications system, this is a bold belief. Haylen wants to laugh at the irony. “Yes - we don’t. And that’s why we should look into alternatives. Our supplies will run out sooner or later. And as it stands, everything points to sooner.” She leans forward, urgency coloring her voice. “We don’t have much chip to trade. So either we will find loot we could trade with the caravans or farms, or we find some ways to feed ourselves. It’s too good to pass up on this.”





	Consensus

**Author's Note:**

> I have played around with some of the ideas in here for years and finally found the time and will to put them together. It's my first time writing anything of this length, and english is not my first language, so I apologize for any bumbling parts.
> 
> The crumbs the game gives us on their relationship hit some of my soft spots when it comes to shipping and I always crave for more.

Storms make trees grow deeper roots, they say, and she doesn’t know yet of the big storms coming her way.

*

Haylen goes through their supplies one more time, checks every piece in their inventory and again comes to the same conclusion. Even with stretching the rations thinner than they already are, the team wouldn’t last longer than two weeks, three weeks tops. The pre-war caches help, but even those run out eventually. Purified water too is a luxury of the past and rare treat if they manage to find or trade some, and Haylen is glad that they at least have means to reach drinkable levels in water purity at all, though the method’s quality is a long shot from the purifier in the Capital.

Despite the doomed message her newest findings bring, they help her to make up her mind.

*

She finds Rhys taking apart his gun in what she thinks of as the former chief office, with the ease and proficiency of experience. The pieces are laid out in an intricate puzzle on a rugged cloth on the desk, and the scent of the cleaning oil mixes with the persistent smell of old paper and decay in the air that fills every room of the police station. The oil she welcomes like an old friend, throughout the years in the Brotherhood she’s come to think of it comforting, and not only because it often accompanies Rhys or herself. She notices his deliberate movements though, taking his time, favoring one side over the other.

“What’s up, Doc?” He looks up when he hears her approach, and gives her a welcoming smile. Rhys could be nice, if you were on his good side – but few people are on his good side. “Found the good stuff down in the garage, and after that horde I’m still picking out some nasty bits. Want me to clean yours when I’m done here?”

She stops in front of the desk. “Sounds good. How’s your wound?”

“Getting better, I hope. It doesn’t hurt as much and nothing’s rotting, so I guess I’ll live.” His attempt at a shrug ends in a pained grimace, making her grin. Rhys puts down the piece he’s been cleaning. “You need anything else?”

Straight to business, but she’s not surprised by that. After all those years together he’s able to read her, and he knows when she had something on her mind that she needs to talk about. Strangely, this makes it easier. “We have a problem.”

“Another? Don’t we have plenty enough to pick from?”

“Wish it wasn’t the case, too,” she says and moves to sit on the worn-out sofa next to the desk. “I think our supplies won’t last us much longer.”

“How long?”

She shakes her head. “Two weeks, maybe three if we’re lucky.”

“Shouldn’t have been that generous with the vaultie,” he scoffs. She lets it slide, this time. Rhys leans back in his chair and exhales, crossing his arms and letting that information sink in.

“We’re less people, but we also have lost resources.” A quite clinical account of their past tragedies, and the words leave behind a bitter taste in her mouth. “But,” she looks up at him, regaining his attention, “I might have a solution.”

“Shoot.”

She has been through this numerous times in her head, has played with and prodded at possibilities, but putting it out in the open suddenly gives it too much weight. “It’s probably a crazy idea, but you know,” she starts, “We have seen all those farms on our way here, right? I was thinking about self-sustaining. We could grow our own crops and feed ourselves.”

Rhys’ eyebrows furrow, and it wasn’t the question but rather the tone that starts to dampen her spirits. “Here? At the police station?”

“Yeah.” She nods. “There should be some usable spot. It’s possible. When you were out after… after that attack I talked some to the vault-guy. Noah.” She notices the flicker of disgust on Rhys’ face, but moves on.“ He told me a bit about the Minutemen and their work. Did you know that they unite a few settlements under them? And they have a functioning network of farms. Even growing enough to live.”

Rhys continues to sit there with his arms crossed, unmoving. His gaze is heavy, and she can see him turning that thought around. The silence stretches on, until finally, “Ok, but how does this work?”

“They move everything through caravans, and –“

“No, not that,” Rhys interrupts. “Don’t you need some kind of seeds and tools and shit, and _who_ will spend their time gardening?”

Haylen tries to hide her irritation. _Gardening._ She was losing him before she even has started to go into detail. She knows the layout of their barters, well-versed in both the buttons and the pitfalls and how to side-step them, and Rhys never really is subtle about where he’s standing on a matter. Changing his mind after he‘s made his decision is not an enjoyable task in any kind of way, and she had hoped that he would see the gravity of this one.

“This is just an idea, for now,” Haylen admits. Rhys’ brow furrows even deeper. “I’d need to check out what’s possible here, and what we’ll need. Maybe scout the area to find useful things. Noah said that the Raiders in College Square had some big set-up, they should have left something behind.”

“So we’re doing this on _if_ ’s and _should_ s?”

Haylen dips her head in confirmation, hoping it doesn’t look too much like admitting defeat. “I know it’s risky, but I don’t see any other options for now. We can’t let this sit until it’s too late. Please, Rhys.” She holds his gaze, challenging, waiting for an answer.

He broods over her words. Rhys does not look convinced at all by her proposal, but at least he is considering it. A small victory. He sighs. „Look, even if I went, I doubt I’d know what to look for…” And then: “Oh no. No, no, no, no. No.”

“Exactly.” She nods, a weak hint of a smirk on her lips.

“Top will never approve.”

“That’s why I’m asking you first.”

That’s an unfair card to play, Haylen is well-aware, but she’s also annoyed that he doesn’t agree with her. Doesn’t understand. Usually he trusts her decisions. Usually, he is reasonable. So for once she allows herself to bask in the scowl on his face.

He exhales, weary. He knows that he has lost, but he wouldn’t be himself if he caved right on the spot. “You’re the medic.”

_Our only one. We’re expendable, you’re not_. She hears the implications. “It won’t do any good if I’m the last one standing.”

“We don’t know when reinforcements arrive.”

When, not _if_. Stranded and with their only shot at calling home a broken communications system, this is a bold belief. Haylen wants to laugh at the irony. “Yes - we don’t. And that’s why we should look into alternatives. Our supplies will run out sooner or later. And as it stands, everything points to sooner.” She leans forward, urgency coloring her voice. “We don’t have much chip to trade. So either we will find loot we could trade with the caravans or farms, or we find some ways to feed ourselves. It’s too good to pass up on this.”

Of course there’s a third option; there always is. But they are not Raiders.

*

In the end, Danse green-lights her mission.

He’s far from happy after hearing her plan for another supply run with such an unpredictable outcome. He’s just banned such runs for the safety of his remaining team, not wanting to take any further chances until reinforcements arrive and they have enough hands on deck to do this safely. But she paints him a vivid picture of starving before said reinforcements even have the fortune to find out that they’re still alive and their current location, and that does the trick. And: While they have a potential help in regards to retrieving the crucial parts that are required for repairing communications, said potential help had departed the police station a few days ago with the equivalent of a hastily scribbled post-it note. “ _After I finish some business”_ is his estimated time of return, and this only leaves them with the option of waiting - or a magically speedy recovery from Rhys.

Rhys at least is generous enough to voice just a few weak protests, and aside from that chooses to silently steam in his dissatisfaction. That probably is one of the perks of being on his good side - compared to open hostility – but that doesn’t mean much when he’s still a massive pain. If he wants to play games, she wouldn’t give him the pleasure of humoring him. So when dinner is passed out that night under the new regulation, she pointedly ignores his grumbles about the size of the portion.

She can wait.

Haylen doesn’t try to persuade him again, because she has said her part, and he’s too bullheaded to consider any other opinion except his own. She has Danse’s support, however unwilling, and that’s enough for now. Rhys can be… inflexible at times, but he too will come around eventually and see the possibilities and benefits. She can wait.

The next day leading up to their run Rhys doesn’t rub his distaste under her nose, but he isn’t above a few snide remarks during their preparations, allowing her to lead in planning the mission, and aside from that avoiding her to the best of his abilities. It’s not completely alarming, but she somewhat starts to worry, because before he’s been willing to hear her out and now he’s giving her the cold shoulder.

He follows up on his offer to clean her weapon though, and doesn’t move his sleeping bag away, so he’s rational about _some_ things.

She can work with that.

*

The clouds hanging low in a gray sky with the threat of rain is not the only burdensome thing that morning. Rhys still gives her the silent treatment, and the sound of their heavy boots on concrete is particularly loud to her ears, but maybe that’s her imagination grasping at anything within reach to fill the absence of their voices.

Well, she can work with that. Has to.

It leaves her with an odd feeling, going out into the field with someone you’re not on speaking terms with, depend on them to have your back with the weight of a fight between you. But: It’s a job, and they’re going to get it done.

So she goes ahead, crossing the stairs, crossing under the barricade, and turns left. For the first time she notices graffiti on the signboard, someone has drawn a plume across it in glaring yellow and she can’t help a smile over the ridiculousness of it. She moves on, bigger things on her mind.  
Rhys follows, because he has to.

When they first arrived, when their number was higher, they have tried to map out Cambridge Square, as a precaution to secure the area. This undertaking had stopped at a try, on account of the Raiders controlling that junction, plus the ghoul-attack has left Gladius too vulnerable to spare time or hands for another go. 

She halfway has expected a sight of carnage, after the horde, after Noah, but seeing the rotting corpses of ghouls littering more or less the entire Cambridge Square was gut-wrenchingly striking. She never has been against it, but now she _understands_ why Danse is trying to recruit that guy. The smell has died down, fortunately. When the wind has been coming from the wrong direction over the past days, even closed windows didn’t help to keep away the stench of decay from the police station. Their presence has roused a few crows from their feast, and they fill the place with noisy complaints over the disturbance. The ghouls may have attracted critters or other opportunists though, so that was an additional thing to keep in mind.  
The appreciating whistle behind her startles her, even Rhys can’t hide that he’s impressed.

“Let’s get this over with,” he says. Moment’s over. Always the professional.

They have a course of action, based off the intel she’s gathered from the vault-guy. It gives them a starting point, and they move towards the bus station, and then the buildings on the left. The thrill of the run wears off fast because there’s nothing to be found, at least not the things she’s looking for. They move around swiftly, efficiently, minding doors and corners. But it doesn’t help that Rhys doesn’t do much aside from standing around, mostly in the way, fingers tapping impatiently on his rifle’s barrel, while she searches through the rooms. She sees the bait, and it takes a lot of willpower to ignore it. Even she has her limits, and he’s doing a fantastic job at testing them.

Haylen comes out empty-handed from their first location. The hardware store in the first floor has some useful stuff left for spare parts or repairs, though nothing out of the ordinary when it comes to pre-war household tech, so that can wait for another return. Same goes for the well-conserved furniture on the upper floors. All in all, aside from a safe neither of them could open and some spare ammo here and there, there was nothing else of interest.

They step out back into the Square; the air a bit cooler, the clouds a bit darker. Haylen worries for a moment, appraising if it’s worth getting caught in a rad storm, _possibly_ , looking for a hint of greenish crackle in the sky. And then she hears it coming from a mile ahead. The _other_ storm, this tell-tale shifting behind her. He’s getting ready to unleash his irritation.

“I think you promised that I’m getting to smash some ghouls,” Rhys says with that annoying I-told-you-so voice.

It’s been a matter of time, and here it is, a classic checkpoint in the build-up to an argument. So Haylen doesn’t stop walking, not only because that would give him a chance to see her rolling her eyes. “After Noah swept through this place I don’t think there are any left. You’ve seen it just now. So _sorry_ for disappointing you.”

He snorts. “That’s why Top let us go in the first place, huh. I’m still no good with my arm if another horde came running.” Then a caustic smile: “You think you gonna find anything, in his leftovers?”

Okay. That’s enough. She stops dead in her tracks and turns to face Rhys. “What is your problem??”

The sudden halt brings her intimately close into his personal space. She’s seen many hapless contenders try their luck at the very same thing, so of course Rhys doesn’t budge a single step. _Now_ his face is a mask of carefully schooled neutral, and it sends a chill down her spine. It’s been a while, and she’s so used to see a hint of mirth or the promise for easy banter in his expression when it came to herself. Haylen buries the sting of it in her stiff back and squared shoulders, and yeah, she gets the tactic. That doesn’t do anything to lessen the hurt.

“This.” At her puzzled look he spreads out his good arm, gesturing about the area to underline his point. “This whole business is a hopeless case, and you _know_ it.”

“You really hate this.” It isn’t an accusation, just stating the facts. And yet she’s disappointed. “I thought you would understand. Support me.”

His eyes are hard. “That’s not how we’re doing things.”

Haylen swallows once, painfully aware of how dry her throat is. She’s used to see Rhys pissed off, mainly at other people, and more often than not has been the one to smooth the waters afterwards. Their own few disputes blew over fast enough. So this coldness from him - _her partner_ \- so blatantly directed at her makes her stomach turn. But for now she pushes the feelings of… what? Betrayal? aside because she isn’t backing off. “We can try, because I want to survive this.”

And he hears the unspoken question, the _What if the Brotherhood way is not the right way?_ and the shock over her insolence flashes over his face just for a second; a crack in his mask, but it has been there. But to hell with his ego and narrow-minded beliefs if it meant that they’re going to die.

Rhys’ nostrils flare, his whole body a rigid wall of anger, until, “Fine, see if I care. I’m still calling the shots here, _Scribe_.” He goes ahead, making sure to bump his shoulder into hers.

Great.

*

Compared to this, the run until now has been peachy. Rhys sets the pace, regardless if she’s ready or not. The kiosk catches her interest, but before she can voice her wishes for a detour she sees Rhys enter the carcass of a bus.

Haylen considers going astray, simply out of a rebellious spark and her curious nature, but next she hears a sudden “God damn!” and without wasting a second thought hurries over, safety off on her gun and ready. Just before she reaches the bus the sound of a shot cracks through the square, startling the birds to flee the streets in a dark, angry cloud, then another. And another. When she’s on the stairs a colorful string of varieties of “fuck” meets her, and then a wet, crushing sound. _Oh_. She knows this one.

She finds Rhys standing amid the remains of a ghoul, wiping off his boot on the floor, and she registers the stench of rot only after seeing the mess of blood and goo painting the metal walls. Her eyes scan his body for injuries on automatic, because that part of her job is ingrained into her brain, second nature and all. Not _his_ blood. No evident tears in his suit. She then makes the mistake of taking a deep breath, from shock, from coming down from adrenaline, and has to force down the rising bile.

“For good measure,” Rhys says and kicks it once more. Only then he notices her presence, his surprise a barely visible jerk of his shoulders. A huff, and then he moves to the exit. She takes a few steps back into the aisle, to let him through. Rhys holds her gaze as he passes her, a challenging “S _ee?”_ in his eyes, taking the opportunity to hands-on remind her of the very basics.

She follows him outside, because she has to.

They move towards the last station of their trip in heavy silence, watchful for any newcomers attracted by the earlier noise. The remaining place to explore is the big row of buildings on the right side. The structures on the upper floors seem promising, she hopes. It looks like the additions have been constructed with a long-term stay in mind, and that’s a plausible place to store their supplies.  
According to intel it’s accessible through the building right across the street and then a gangway built atop the truck. The entry is secured with chimes made of empty tin cans, and every landing is fortified and equipped for defense. That ultimately hasn’t protected them from meeting their demise, but despite herself, Raiders or not, she has to admire the efficiency of the set-up. Not that she could say it out loud and get away with it. She’s had her taste of lectures for today.

On their way up Haylen unearths some more stray ammo, but the weight of her backpack reminds her that she hasn’t found anything important to her objective yet, and that doesn’t lift her spirits. She’s close to praying for a wonder, because she can almost hear the inevitable, self-pleasing litany of smartass commentary over wasted time and resources.

So when she descends the stairs and stumbles into what must be a storage room, she can’t believe her eyes: Unorganized boxes and heaps of items in-between shelves and open filling cabinets. Those must be where they’ve stored the goods stolen from caravans, when they still were passing through. Or must have been, since Noah has beaten her to scavenging this place. But, he couldn’t have carried _everything_ away.

Rhys almost runs into her, still on the stairs, and that breaks the spell. A fresh giddiness takes over her, and she gets to work.

His dry “Jackpot, huh?” is lost on her, already immersed in the search.

*

In the end, she finds some rotten fruits, a basket full of corn and a small cloth bag full of razorgrain. The other bag filled with flour she leaves behind, as it’s been infested with beetles. Haylen considers taking the apples and mutfruit to afterward extract the seeds, but both the rot and the soft fuzz of mold advise her against it. She doesn’t want to risk poisoning her team. For now, this shall suffice. If needed, she knows where to find more.

Rhys remains silent for the rest of her task, quietly watching. And only after she’s stuffed her backpack with every piece of packed or canned food that fit in, he prompts their leave: “Finished?”

She nods.

At least he could be happy for her, but that’s too much to ask from him.

*

They don’t talk after their return.

The minute they step back into the station Rhys leaves her without a word, stalking up the stairs and vanishing into the offices. Haylen just stares flabbergasted, but then again she can’t muster the energy to fight him – over what? He’s doing the most to confirm that he’s an ass and show how much he hates her scheme, and she is too tired to rehash the same argument over and over. Rhys even failed to bring any of their findings back, leaving all the scavenging to her. The message is clear.  
So with a sigh she secures the grip on her spoils, and makes to go to her own corner to unload and then update Danse on the mission status.

And it continues. Aside from the necessities they both go out of their way to avoid each other, occupying opposite spaces, and sitting in tense silence when she’s typing away on the terminal and he decides that he wants to enjoy his coffee in the main room at the very same time. If it wasn’t for the severity of their situation, she would have laughed at their childish behavior. It is a far cry from the professionals they’re supposed to be, but again, until she figures out the reasons behind his rejection there’s really nothing left to try to counteract it, nothing new to say. Her usual approach spectacularly backfired, but she’s too tired to try to fix it.

The biggest surprise amidst this whole mess: His sleeping bag remains next to hers. Yes, he waits until he’s sure that she’s asleep before following suit, but he doesn’t move it away.

Haylen tries not to be relieved when she hears his quiet snoring later at night.

Eventually, even Danse notices, but that was not hard with just the three of them inhabiting the police station. He finds her in a quiet moment when she’s monitoring energy readings. “I’m asking as your superior,” he says, and despite his efforts his face betrays that he’s torn between the rigid corset of protocol and the want to reach out. “And I’m going to have this conversation with Rhys, too. I need both of you on the same side.”

“We just… have a disagreement.” She feels bad for adding to their mountain of troubles at such a crucial time, and yet she’s thankful that he’s doing this, recalling her embarrassing break-down in his arms after Worwick. She catches herself fiddling with her pen, and almost slams it into the clipboard to keep her hand still. Maybe they can talk freely, later. “It won’t affect my performance, sir.”

*

Afterwards, when she washes up for the night, despite better knowledge she seeks out her features in the blind mirror above the sink. Her victory tastes hollow. Without her partner to share her joy or bounce off theories and plans, this whole affair is much gloomier than she has imagined. Sure, Danse is pleased with the positive results, but that’s different.

Her exhaustion somehow manages to translate into her blurry reflection.

What a day.

*

The next morning, after finishing her primary duties, Haylen starts her inspection of her loot, diligently cataloguing everything. She’s already had several ideas for the next stages of this project, but those depend on her actual assets, and to be honest, they aren’t much. Another round of dread of smartass commentary makes her sigh; it looks like this is going to be a _gardening_ project after all.

(Danse on the other hand is coming around, as long as it doesn’t interfere with her other work, and somehow she can’t shake the feeling that he’s glad that the team is able to keep themselves busy. He’s still waiting for the promised return of the vault-guy, itching to _finally_ start the mission and fearing that he’s made a severe mistake, and condemning them all for good by another misjudged decision. And yes, he’s trying not to show his anxiety over it. It’s almost unbearable to watch him roam around.)

But: While not tech-related, it could be valuable data for the Brotherhood. Just because a grease-monkey like Rhys can’t see the benefits from knowledge of the influence of climatic conditions on growth performance and crop yield at different locations, it doesn’t mean that it’s irrelevant work.

Admittedly, she’s half grease-monkey herself and it’s not her main field of work either. Her agricultural understanding is limited to whatever she remembers from her brief brush with botany studies and the chatter (or rather, lamentations) of her fellow scribes. But Haylen is a fast learner, and perhaps she could ask around on the local farms for counseling, or trade for more seeds when her attempts prove successful. Even if the results end up subpar, the senior scribes will have a starting point to work with - no result is also a result.

That’s her way of paving the Brotherhood of Steel’s path, if they are to establish a new chapter in the Commonwealth.

That’s her way of clinging to an _ever after_.

*

(She doesn’t know yet how wrong she is.)

*

The bushes next to the stairs have to go.

After evaluating the perimeter those are the only suitable spots of soil within the safety of the barricades, and the alley to the left is… off-limits. One side goes to corn, the other to razorgrain. The area lost to the trees plus the huge rock on the right side can’t be helped, but she isn’t keen on all the work of removing them as well. She doesn’t expect Rhys to lift a single finger in help, and for a small-scale test run it’s more than sufficient. Should be.

There’s still the issue of water, and the obvious solution is to simply haul it from the river, but she’s not completely sold on that yet. There’s room for improvement. She just needs to figure it out.

Haylen steps out of the station and a warm breeze welcomes her, heralding the end of spring and beginning of summer. Not the worst weather for this kind of labor, and she’s glad that she had the foresight to leave the hat and the heavier parts of her armor inside. She drops the tools she’s gathered from the garage on one of the boxes outside. She didn’t know how much resistance the plants would offer and what exactly is needed, so she’s brought all the stuff that looked useful. Most of it shows its age, rusted blades and soft plastics handles brittle and flakes of old paint that stick to her hands, but they’ll do the job. For now, she picks a big pair of clippers. Rolling up her sleeves, she looks at the bush in front of her. “I’m sorry, buddy,” she says and makes to work.

Twenty minutes later, all bushes are cut down to just the stumps greeting her. Now the not-so-fun parts of uprooting them and then digging the soil over would begin, but before that Haylen stands up and stretches her aching back. Despite the small area, constantly hunkering over is not back-friendly. Tomorrow her muscles will write her a hefty bill. A moan escapes her, and when she looks up she sees Rhys standing on the rooftop. He’s leaning against the railing, a cup of coffee in one hand and a bored look on his face. She hasn’t even noticed him watching her. How long has he been there?

When their eyes meet, and they _do_ meet, he makes no attempt at calling out or acknowledging her, so Haylen turns her back on him, fueled by a fresh spark of anger over the fact that he has the balls to come out to watch her. If he dares to utter even one word of judgement, especially after his little tasteless show, she at least has a shovel ready to hand.

In hindsight, she shouldn’t have mentioned neither the Minutemen nor Noah in her initial pitch, Haylen is big enough to admit her own mistake. And as prickly as his brutal honesty was, it helped to solve their fights quickly enough. He told her what’s wrong, upfront; they had a talk, done. So this foolish charade makes no sense at all. But the thing that really doesn’t sit right with her, the little detail that leaves her queasy, is that _usually_ Rhys knows better than to allow his loathing of both parties cloud his ability to make decisions of this magnitude.

They all are worn thin. But: That’s not a good enough excuse.

Haylen wipes the sweat from her forehead and with new fervor, she picks up the shovel and starts to dig.

*

She sound of a third voice reaches her when she enters the station from the garage, tools stored away after finished work. She’s tired and looking forward to wash off the dirt, but Haylen is content. It feels like progress, _finally_ , with palpable proof under her fingernails and in the ache in her shoulders.  
She can’t make out the words from the bottom of the stairs, but she recognizes its owner. Haylen wakes up instantly from her haze.

He finally returned.

*

The station is too big with just the two of them.

Danse and Noah have left for ArcJet after two hours of preparations, neither of them wanted to wait for the next day. Rhys’ first words have been a blunt “Where the hell have you been?”, but Noah didn’t offer them an explanation, just a smile and a shrug. Haylen hasn’t bothered with questions at all, close to overflowing with new hope that their main objective finally continued. Close to calling home. She has helped them with prep and supplies, while Rhys busied himself with last check-ups of Danse’s power armor and avoided any further conversation with their guest.  
When he gave his ok, they’ve left.

Haylen goes to check on the roof antenna, but she’s done everything possible up to the point where they’ve found out that a deep range transmitter was needed. It won’t hurt to do a last brush up to have it ready to go, later. So all that’s left to do for her is wait, and that’s hard when her mind is buzzing with thoughts about the mission, and making lists and orders of action over what to do first at their arrival. She doesn’t leave room for a scenario for _what if_ their run is not successful. She can’t.

Haylen picks up a technical document she’s discovered some months ago and never found the time to study, trying to read, and her eyes recognize the letters yet her mind doesn’t make any sense of the strings of words in front of her. After reading the same paragraph for the tenth time and not having a single clue about its contents, she decides that it’s hopeless. She’s too restless to concentrate. Rationally, she knows that Danse just had left and it’s going to take a while until his return, and yet she is impatient.

Earlier, when they’ve waited for Rhys to finish up, Noah has asked her about the freshly dug soil outside, and she told him about her plans in broad strokes. He’s nodded, sincere, and promised to share some advice on their return. Someone supports her, and she’s impatient for that too.

So now, with just the two of them, the rooms suddenly seem too big, with too much space to fill. And Rhys doesn’t change his attitude even in the face of the current events, just informs her that he’s leaving to patrol the perimeter, and fine, she can’t force him to talk to her.

It’s lonely.

She does the energy readings for the day, but that’s also over way too soon, then checks and organizes her med kit twice. She refuses to read anything into the gaps. And then there’s nothing left to do but sit around waiting for Rhys to finish his patrol and then prepare their meal. It’s his turn tonight. Suddenly it crosses her mind that dinner will be a very silent affair.

She hasn’t been far off with her guess, the only passing of words about security and her update on readings, and the silence is suffocating. When they finish up she reminds him that she needs to check up on his wound, and tells him to drop by later.

With their _disagreement_ still in action, every single one of their exchanges feels off. It’s like they’re back to testing-the-waters levels of interaction, full of carefully considered actions, and she hates being the one to walk on eggshells when she’s not the one at fault. Even when Rhys entered her room (when did she begin to think of it like that?) his presence seems like an invasion of her space. Suddenly he appears to be out of place, his bulk too big, taking up too much room. But the fraction of a second that he hesitated before he went through the hole in the wall betrays all the inflated bravado that he put on display.

She motions him to the sofa while she gets her utensils ready. Rhys sits down wordlessly, zips his flight suit low enough to slip out his arms, movements a little less restrained by pain, and she starts the examination. The wound is healing off nicely, so she just has to change the dressing. He keeps his eyes trained on the wall while she does her work, though the awkward silence between them speaks unbearably loud. He’s a stoic statue, but she notices the effort it takes him to keep his fingers from fidgeting, and that makes it worse. Now her own mind is racing to find anything to say, the want to talk itching under her skin, but she’s blanking and she has forgotten every single word she knows. The situation is plain wrong; there always has been a comfortable ease between them, and now there isn’t. And _now_ she’s angry, at him, at herself, at this whole mess and she just wants to retune the settings to how they’ve been before.

And then: “Weather looks bad,” Rhys says.

It takes her aback, because she was not prepared for him to be the one to break the quiet. And while she ponders the meaning (Danse probably was out of it, in the building already; yeah no, he can’t be worried about her _garden_ ; he _-_ ) Rhys stands up and shrugs his arms back into his suit. “We done here?”

Abruptly pulled from her thoughts, all she musters is: “Yeah. All good.” She tries a smile, but he just gives a curt nod and leaves.

Right after he’s exited the room she hears a bang, followed by an angry curse. When she goes looking, one of the tables stands askew and Rhys is rubbing his hip, muttering under his breath on his way back to his side.

He’s frustrated with his frustrations, and yes, she can tell. All that energy and nowhere to let it go. He would be doing push-ups if not for his injury, so instead he’s either roaming around, moving the same pile from corner to corner and back, or spends his time tinkering in the garage on gods-know-what, because they only have one set of power armor between them and that one is Danse’s.

A tired sigh leaves her and trying to shake off the feeling of being lost, searching for the next task to keep her mind busy, she looks around her excuse of a room, with the neat boxes of rescued tech stacked along the wall. They stand out amid the debris, and that feels wrong too. Each piece has been numbered and catalogued, and now is waiting to be picked up and dismantled or analyzed by the loving, curious hands of an armada of scribes. And the funny thing is, in case they don’t make it out alive: This meticulous work will be just another pile of garbage for the next person to find it, because all those numbers and letters in the Brotherhood’s sampling system don’t mean anything to them.

On bad days she wonders if there’s still a point to their work.

*

Rhys’ cryptic hint about the weather makes sense as soon as she steps out of the police station to take the first night watch. From the roof top she has an excellent view of the dark clouds from the east, with the promise of heavy downpour. The lights of Diamond City are a stark contrast of brightness against it, and she briefly wonders if she ever gets to see the city.

A sudden gust of wind takes those thoughts away, and she swells with anger, again, over Rhys’ half-assed warning. His random jumps from dutiful knight to cold shoulder and back are a massive pain in the neck, and he needs to get his shit together because she has her limits, too. Despite her assurance that their pointless fight won’t affect her performance, she’s drained. Danse’s been right, they need to be on the same side, and she’s been lenient towards Rhys to come around for too long. Usually, this worked.

The first drops fall, and for now, she shrugs on her coat and keeps watch.

*

He’s still asleep when she comes down. For a moment, Haylen just stands in the dimly lit room, her coat dripping, and watches him. The rain has washed away most of her anger and left her with a weariness that goes to the bone. Then she goes to wake him, and wordlessly changes out of her wet clothes while he gets ready for his shift.

“It’s raining,” she says as she slips into her sleeping bag. Rhys just looks over, then to the small puddles on the floor, and nods.

She’s tired, and then she’s bristling. So she sits up, covers bunched around her and asks, “Don’t you think this is going on long enough already?”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “I don’t know, how much longer do you want to play around?”

This is not what she wanted, and all she can do is hold his stare. Of fucking _course_ none of this is his fault, and it stuns her into silence.

Rhys grabs his things, and leaves for his shift.

*

She doesn’t get to sleep much this night, with too many thoughts about the mission crowding her mind. Add the bite from Rhys’ words to that and you have a nice blend of issues to keep you awake. He can be so cold, and she hates this side of his. She wants them back to _before_.

In a merciful turn, Haylen passes out when the sunrise starts to lighten the windows, and she feels like she’s just closed her eyes for a hot minute when she gets up. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she notices that she’s alone in the main room, Rhys’ sleeping bag is rumpled and vacant, but she hears faint noise from some of the offices. Good. She’s not in the mood to deal with Rhys, especially not first thing in the morning.

She gets ready for the day, and she gets a coffee in order to function, and then she goes about her tasks and duties. Sure, there’s another check of the roof antenna on her to-do-list, especially after the rain, and she takes a look at her garden but it’s unchanged, only wetter than yesterday. That saves her the trouble of watering, and it’s also a reminder that she still needs to figure this problem out. She puts it on her list. At last she starts the most mundane of tasks and tidies her room. It’s work that has to be done, and for a medic keeping their working space clean is a necessity. The debris is too much for one person to get rid of, and they’ve had more pressing matters at hand, but when it gets removed, it’s finally going to look like a proper medical facility.

Danse and Noah return when she’s in the middle of sweeping the floor.

*

The mission was a success, and they present her a deep range transmitter. All her exhaustion is wiped away and she’s giddy with excitement. Even Rhys joins them, albeit standing back a bit. She can’t tell if it’s because of her or his distaste of Noah, but she doesn’t allow this thought to ruin the moment. Danse informs her that his help needs medical attention, so she passes the transmitter to Rhys for a preliminary check and instructs to get Noah on a chair while she gets her med kit. She doesn’t look back to watch Rhys go.

“What happened?” she asks while she removes Noah’s boot to have a look at his leg.

Noah just laughs through his teeth. “I fell.”

She looks up at him, and cocks a brow. “You fell,” she repeats and softly presses on the swelling on his ankle.

He gasps, and struggles to keep his jovial grin. “It was a - ah - pretty deep fall.”

“You’re lucky that it’s not broken. Just a sprain. A stim will speed up the recovery.” As she reaches into the kit to get one, he says, “We did that already after the fall.”  
“Then keep an eye on it, and if it doesn’t get better, use another.” Haylen secures his ankle and gives him something for the pain, and advises him to keep his weight of it.

In the meanwhile Danse settled down, assuring her that his own check-up can wait for later, and fills her in on what happened at ArcJet, laying on the praise for his help thick, with a few interruptions from Noah to play it down. She can’t help a smile over seeing Danse this lively, compared to just yesterday it’s a great change. It feels good.

And then Rhys comes back, and even he looks pleased. “It’s the real deal. We’re good to go.”

He gives the lucky piece of tech back to Haylen, and it’s hard to look him in the eye, his words still ghosting in the back of her mind, but she stares at him with a challenge. “Let’s get this to the antenna then,” she says and nods to Danse before heading to the stairs. Her tools already wait for her at the top flight. She sees Rhys move too, and her eyebrows furrow in irritation. “Where are you going?”

He stops, surprise over her rebuff written all over his face. “With you?” he tries.

“I don’t need you there.” It’s cruel, but she’s tired and doesn’t need him distracting her. Doesn’t want him there.

She holds his gaze, and Rhys just scowls before he shrugs and accepts it, but it probably won’t be the last she heard about it. She doesn’t care. He’s made his bed, now he has to lie in it.

One last look tells her that both Danse and Noah pretend not to notice their awkward exchange.

Installing the transmitter is a routine job. Haylen has imagined that the pressure of it would leave her hands shaking, but this isn’t the case, and she finishes up quickly enough. The prospect of reaching home, reaching safety, puts her fight with Rhys on the backburner and on her way back she takes two steps at a time. She breaks up another lively conversation in the main room and all eyes are on her as she informs them on her successful job. “We’re ready to call.”

Danse smiles. “Then do it.”

With a pounding heart she walks into the reception and sits in front of the radio. The frequency should be correct, unless Scabbard is no longer on duty, and there’s no way of telling unless she tries. Haylen takes a deep breath. The ham radio comes alive with a squeak and then static. She grabs the speaker. “Scabbard, this is Recon Squad Gladius. Our unit has sustained casualties and we run low on supplies. We’re requesting support or evac from our position at Cambridge Police Station.”

She waits. The air in the room is tense with anticipation, but the radio only offers white noise.

Her throat is dry, and she swallows. Haylen looks up to Danse, and he gives a small nod. She tries again. “Scabbard, this is Recon Squad Gladius.”

She doesn’t get to finish, because: “ _Gladius, this is Scabbard. We hear you_.”

The relief is palpable instantly, the burden of the past months lifted, and the others burst into a cacophony of cheers. Haylen wipes her tears with the back of her hand, and laughs.

*

After the first excitement has calmed down, she briefs Scabbard on their situation. Within the next hour she repeats her information and answers detailed questions, and she sends her reports to Quinlan, and then the order is to sit back and wait for a decision from the top brass.

When she’s finished she slumps on her chair and takes a deep breath. They did it. She beams at Danse, “We did it.”

He returns her smile. “Well done.”

She looks over to Rhys, in the far back at the other terminal. There’s an ease in his stance she hasn’t seen in weeks, and he looks hopeful. She tries a tentative smile, and he agrees.

“This calls for a celebration,” Noah says, and there’s no opposition to that.

Though Haylen insists on doing her duty as a medic first and check Danse, but he’s managed to walk away with some superficial scratches and bruises. So they set up a meal, still keeping the rationing in mind, and somehow someone unearths some beer. It’s all smiles and easy banter, with toasts to their success mixed with retellings of the ArcJet mission in various levels of details, followed by speculation about the _when_ and _who_ of their support or evac. Haylen is light-headed and light-hearted, and forgets to continue to uphold her fight with Rhys. He’s sitting beside her, and it’s not completely back to normal, the way it was before, because he hasn’t offered yet a single syllable of apology, but there are more important things at hand.

And then Noah steers the conversation to her project. “So what are you growing?”

Haylen jumps at the chance to talk about it. “For now just corn and razorgrain. It’s just a test. I still have to learn these things, and I didn’t find much on our scavenge.” She doesn’t notice how Rhys’ face sours.

Noah’s gaze flickers between them, but he doesn’t comment on it either. “But it’s just on those two spots?”

She confirms. “The only places within the barricade. I’d love to have more space though.”

Rhys scoffs. “Great idea, really. Let’s just put up a sign with arrows pointed at us so the next horde of abominations can come running.”

Danse shots him a look, but holds back a verbal reprimand.

To be honest, that was a valid objection, but she doesn’t want to admit that to him. It’s petty, and she knows it. “We’re visible anyway, with the barricade set-up and Brotherhood insignia. Too late to worry about _that_.” She takes a breath, trying to reign in the acid in her voice. “Besides, the data gained from this could prove valuable, even if we no longer have to rely on it.”

“So how is this gonna work out?” Rhys leans back and crosses his arms. “This is some long-term shit, it takes forever until the first crops. We’d be starved by then. Would you want us to go hunting next?”

It’s hard to not explode at him, and she won’t allow Rhys to destroy her good mood. Tough she’s already irritated that he has the nerve to barge in. And this was more than he has spoken to her in the past few days together. “ _I don’t know_ ,” she starts, stressing the words, “Depends on how severe our situation would be.”

And oh, he sees what she’s done, and swallows his retort with a gulp of beer.

She turns back to Noah, ignoring the puzzled looks from their audience. “Do you have any of the promised tips?”

“Uh, let’s see.” Noah ponders, turning his bottle in his hands. “From the top of my head… You’ve put the seeds straight into the soil, right?” She nods. “Try raising them in a pot before that, with some transparent glass or plastic as top cover. It’s like a tiny greenhouse, and the chances that the plants get to seedling stage are higher.”

“Don’t they grow no matter what,” Rhys asks into his beer. “Trees and grass manage to grow anyway.”

“Yeah, sure. But you want yield, and the lower the number of your losses, the better.” He expands on that: “This area is hit by radiation storms pretty often, and they can be fatal for young plants. First, you have radiation, and second, all the contaminated water in the soils. The plants die right away, or thanks to the weakening they’re frail and you struggle with diseases, or you get some random mutations.” He chuckles. “Sometimes _those_ are not that bad. But yeah, it’s better to send them off with a good start.”

Haylen worries the label of her bottle. “So I doomed them?”

“Nah, they’ll grow, but just maybe not all. Just watch them. This is something the farmers here found works best for them. If you want to, I can arrange some meetings and you can ask directly,” he offers and Haylen’s face lightens up.

“Really?”

Danse echoes her gratitude. “That would be a great help.”

Noah nods, and looks into their round. “Speaking of, I have a proposal in mind.” He takes a sip, and continues. “Cambridge Square is an important trading route for the caravans. Now it’s safe again for travel, and you’re welcome to trade with us. I can’t give you discounts, at least not right away, but I can put you on the map if you take over the issue of keeping the square safe.”

At first they’re too surprised to respond, and then her and Danse’s words of thanks are mixed with a frank “ _why”_ from Rhys.

“Because I like you. We both will profit from this arrangement. Think of it as future investments,” Noah says with a wink.

Rhys frowns. “Can’t say I like you better than that Carla lady.”

“That’s a low blow.”

“Rhys, that’s enough”, Danse finally reigns him in. “That’s not your place to decide, knight.”

“Yes, sir.”  The rebuke quiets him, and he’s back to nursing his beer in angry silence.

Danse turns to Noah. “We thank you, and we will consider your offer and forward it to our superiors. You’re a valuable ally to the Brotherhood. Have you reconsidered joining our ranks?”

“How about another beer before we start talking the real business?” he says jovially, and Danse gets up with a laugh to get refills.

Haylen seizes the chance to ask for more advice, and follows suit to go get something for taking notes. And then she sees the pointed look and how Noah makes sure that she’s still in hearing range before he talks to Rhys, unsure if she’s thankful or displeased with his meddling.

“Last week you were an ass only to me,” Noah says with a good-natured smirk. “What’s causing trouble in paradise?”

For the probably murderous look Rhys first shoots him, he surprises him with: “I’m not drunk enough to have this conversation.”

Noah’s grin widens and he finishes his beer. “Allow me to pass advice a wise woman once told me: If you need to be, let’s rather not have it at all.” He pats Rhys’ shoulder amiably. “Think about it, buddy.” Then he stands up with a “Hey, Danse, about laser guns…” and hobbles over, leaving a befuddled Rhys at the table before he has any chance to reply.

And it’s something obvious, but something she also needed a reminder of: It’s a choice.

Haylen has no delusions about the nature of her relationship with Rhys. He set the borders, and she accepted them. She enjoys their friendship, how easy it is to work with him (an opinion that always earns her looks from about everyone else), their mutual trust. At the end of the day, they make a good team.

And sure, at first she’s been intimidated by his hulking ego and prickly pride, close to regretting their mentor-trainee-pairing. Unfortunately he did have the track record to back up his arrogance. Her time wandering the Capital Wastelands had left her with a natural caution, always on the look-out for the hidden knife, and for a short while she has suspected that he was working out his frustrations for being assigned to a scribe at his very first mentor gig, but no, he didn’t discriminate like that. He was Brotherhood of Steel to the core, though not born and bred, but that didn’t stop him. So she has learned to make it work, because that’s something she’s good at, learned to understand him and chip away at his walls one brick at a time. And since results were all that mattered, results she gave him, and wow, she wouldn’t blame anyone for mistaking his sudden change in personality for something more.

Awkward as it was, they have moved past that too.

And her feelings have faded to background noise, returning now and then, but she has learned to bury them. Shaking them off completely has been impossible, and maybe, _maybe_ there’s still an irrational hope for _something_ , a silly fantasy even now, but it’s a place that she’s content with.

It’s simple and complicated as that.

She tells herself that she’s above it, that she’s able to keep her romantic feelings separated from her professional ones, but their current fight makes carrying those unbearable hard.

*

This night she sleeps well for the first time in months.

*

Noah leaves the police station in the morning, his ankle mostly healed, off to see to his own matters. He hasn’t given a clear answer to Danse’s invitation, but promised another return, the least to work out the details of their trade agreement. She’s relieved that this also resolved their supply problem. Danse has to make do with that.  
His departure marks an end to their celebrations, and with that the mood at the station calms down. The three of them return to their usual tasks, only with higher spirits and anticipating glances towards the ham radio whenever they’re passing it.

Rhys insists on keeping up his self-sanctioned speaking-embargo, even now, with some odd moments of confusion in which he’s made attempts at seeking her out but aborted last minute. She’s raised her eyebrows at him the first time, but doesn’t let it faze her. She’s decided that she won’t reach out to him and make it easier - whatever it was that he was trying at. He’s bungled that himself.

She sees the sorrow in Danse over their continuing situation, and the unspoken questions, but he gives them the space to solve this on their own. She’s thankful for this kind of trust, but it’s not like he can order them to make up. This runs deeper, and he knows it.

The high feeling wears off eventually with no news in sight, leaving behind lackluster emptiness. All they can do is power through as usual, but the steam is gone.

*

Two days later Gladius receives word that the Brotherhood of Steel is coming to the Commonwealth.

*

Haylen is patrolling the perimeter when the news reach her, Danse the happy messenger. His joy rubs off on her for a short while, but she can’t stop falling back into her tired state of mind. The Brotherhood’s arrival will be in weeks, maybe months, and this means that they’re back to waiting, and lately it seems like this is all they do. Waiting for help, waiting for new orders, waiting for new directions. Waiting for Rhys to stop being  a pain.

Her duty now is to stay alive, _until_ , and she doesn’t quite know how to fulfill that.

So the news of reinforcements finally coming feel unreal to her, with this hazy, exhausting state of in-between. And she still would find it difficult to believe until the physical proof is right there in front of her. It’s been too long, with too many close calls, too many sacrifices. The evidence of their failures lies just over the fence.

She walks the length of the barricade, and reaches the other end. Her gaze catches on her plots, and yeah, she’s waiting on progress there, too. Though last she’s checked she has seen the first hints of green.

It’s weird, in a sense of seeking out symbolism where there is none, but she can’t help thinking that a part of her is taking root with those plants. A part of her is ready to call the Commonwealth her _home_ – they have been on the trek for a year now, and now their current location has an air of permanence, so she may as well have tried everything to ensure survival, even for one day longer. _Adapt_.

And after all these months, despite all the unforgiving hostility it has thrown at them and despite their losses, the land feels more familiar than strange. She catches herself thinking less and less of the Citadel, but with every day meaning new troubles there hasn’t been time for doing so - only as a place to return to, a distant memory slowly replaced with the new. With the Brotherhood coming here, chances to go back to the Citadel are pushed back even further.  
If this mission has any good point, at least she’s stranded with the people she cares about. A part of her was selfish enough to think about leaving everything behind and start all over.

Haylen frowns at her own thoughts. Maybe that’s what Rhys is scared of. Losing his identity, and trade his past for far less than they’ve had. But he bleeds Brotherhood while she was starting to drown in her doubts.

She wishes things between them would return to how they were before. She is tired of fighting. It’s lonely.

She misses him.

*

Rhys finally speaks to her this evening.

He’s back on her sofa for medical care, stripped to the waist for one last sitting to get the stiches on his chest wound removed. The mood has shifted to something slightly different from before, and his heartbeat under her fingertips tells her that he’s itching with something to say. _Interesting_ , but she’s waiting to see where this is going. She can wait. Haylen picks up her tools and gets to work.

She doesn’t have to wait for long for it. “Now that backup is on the way, you won’t need to play in the dirt,” he says to the wall.

There it was, that amiable voice. As if there never was an issue between them. Forgotten and forgiven. She doesn’t respond to it, pretends to be consumed by her work.

The lack of a reaction puts an awkward air about him, until: “It was weird. You being angry.”

At this she stops – oh, that was _bold_ \- and steps back to look at him properly, tweezers and a pair of scissors still in hand. “Is this an apology?”

Rhys stiffens, caught dead in his tracks. His face is a battle between his ego and his efforts to right his wrongs. “Gods, throw me a bone here.”

“No.” She wants to, because she’s tired of fighting and tired of this pointless mess he has put her through, so she can’t just let it go. And apparently he’s unable to see that his opposition has hurt her. After all the times that she had his back, all the years  spent together in training and on the field, she has assumed he’d return the favor once in a while.  
Haylen straightens to her full height, standing before him and crosses her arms. “Don’t put this on me. This was an important matter to all of us – to me - and I thought I made it crystal clear that we needed this to survive. It’s just plain luck that things turned out the way they have.” She exhales heavily. “I thought you would understand. And help me. But you’re a massive dick about the whole thing and beyond that, just because of… what exactly?”

Her outburst takes him aback, because it’s not how this usually goes. But his initial approach has backfired, and his annoyance gladly accepts the challenge. He sits up straighter. “Because that plan was so great, yeah. We’re depending on some backwater farmer to come back from fucking around god knows where and finally give us a hand? And then return to the dirt and play house?”

She bristles, because it’s so easy to get swept up in his temper, and then she truly registers his words. Her voice grows softer at the revelation. “… So that has been your problem? That we’re weak?”

“That’s… That’s not it.” His mouth is a grim line, and then he falters under her gaze. “Okay, yes, that’s my fucking problem. Our team dropped dead on this fucked mission like flies one after another and we’re the last ones standing. And we can’t do anything without the help from that guy or waiting for back-up. There. I said it. Are you happy now?”

“No,” she replies. This isn’t a contest, and he doesn’t get it yet. “But was it really that hard to talk to me about it?”

Rhys reclines into the sofa, wind taken out of his sails. “I didn’t know what to say. Or how.”

“Usually that’s not a problem for you.” Haylen can’t resist the quip, and his objection dies under her pointed stare as she puts the instruments away. “And making me your punching bag was the better option?”

She must have hit a sweet spot, because he flinches. He looks so lost in the way he sits before her, at her mercy, and his state of undress adds an unintentional vulnerability that it makes it almost easy to believe. “I’m sorry, Haylen. I _know_ I’ve been a dick and I’m sorry.”

She lets the words sit in the open, testing them. They feel sincere, and that’s good, but she’s not ready to accept them right away, because there’s still room in them for something that is missing. “Okay,” is all she says. She can wait.

Silence unfolds between them again as Rhys waits for her to say more, and the only sound is his heavy breathing. His eyes betray the turmoil of his mind, and it’s such a rare sight, this exposed state of defenselessness, that she doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

Another heave of his chest, and he runs his hands over his face, deflating, avoiding to look at her. And then: “I feel like an asshole for being glad it wasn’t you. Never you.”

And oh – she has been so eager to fully unleash her anger, but he drops such an unfair bomb on her and his words grind the whole momentum to a total halt. Suddenly all the pieces fall together, and a lot of things make sense. Why Rhys has been so against her project; why he’s been so angry. Being angry was better than being afraid.

Her throat suddenly was dry, and she fights off the tears. “I know,” she shares, and it’s not the implication of his confession, but for the burden he’s been bold to offer before her. And she hopes to read this right, in his round-about way, as she steps into the space between his legs and reaches for his hand. Puts it on her hip. He doesn’t push her away. 

There’s confusion on his features now, and she waits, holding his gaze. Her eyes land on his fresh scar, a harsh reminder of the reality of luck and missed chances and _choices_ , and she’s making hers now. Between the two of them they have a lifetime of guilt to share, but they don’t have to carry this burden on their own.

He makes up his mind too, because: He sits up and pulls her close, meets her to capture her lips in a kiss. And the ferocity of it speaks of years of yearning and the burning need for closeness. Haylen leans into him, her hands cupping his face as she climbs onto his lap when he opens his mouth for her.

It feels so good after the times of loneliness; the warmth of his skin, and the solid weight of him beneath her, a center of gravity in her shaken world. She moans his name against his lips as his hands slide up her sides, and one comes to rest in the nape of her neck while he holds her in the embrace of his arms.

Rhys then slows down, the first frantic pull of _finally_ calmed to languid savor, and yes, this is what she wants, but not what she needs, and his eyes snap open as she lightly rakes her nails from his chest down to his belly. His hands fall back to her hips, to keep her apart and yet unwilling to let go. She sits back with a frown.

His eyes are dark as he looks at her, and there’s a strain of panic in his voice, against this clear indication of want, in this breathy steam of air. “Haylen, shit, I didn’t want -- I mean, I _do_ , but not like this,” he stumbles over his words because he fucked it up again.

“Rhys.” She places her hands over his, grounding both of them, and then leans forward, sliding them over his bare arms, over his shoulders, and lets them rest at his neck in an embrace. He has his faults, unfortunately plenty enough of them, but this is where she’s laid her affections. She’s aware that he has just finished his struggle with his decision, and she knows that this now is all her doing, this jumping-straight-in, because she’s tired of waiting and starved for affection.  
“I know,” she reassures and reclaims his lips in a tender kiss. And it’s endearing, the croaky groan she elicits from him with a sudden grind of her hips against the straining evidence that yes, he _wants_ , and the almost scandalized look he gives her over her sweet smirk.

So she grinds down again, and that breaks the last of his hesitation. She feels his own grin in the slant of his mouth against her, and while she’s not exactly sure where she draws her confidence from, she knows that she’s desperate for this, hungry for his touch. There’s the weight of a _later_ in the back of her mind, when they’ll sort this out, but that’s not important _right now_.

Unwilling to separate, to let go of her newfound refuge, she concedes the cruel moments it needs for her to shimmy out of her pants, only to come alive under the warmth of his skin against hers. But she wants more, she needs to feel _something_ after these months of strain and exhaustion and bleak promises of the future.

He brings her out of her thoughts with the sound of her name and the touch of his fingers, when they find the wet warmth between her legs. She spreads them further apart as she melts into him, this comforting bulk of his, burying her face in the crook of his neck, and she feels the fresh lines of the scar in the press of her breasts again his skin. His free arm comes around her back for support, holding her in place as she bucks down on his fingers and moans into him.

“W-wait,” she stammers, trying to gather her wits, because this is not enough, not how she wants it.

Rhys stops, to her bidding, and his worry is replaced with understanding as her hand moves to his still clothed erection. He hisses at the touch, and then he laughs as she fumbles with the zippers of his flight suit. His arms are strong as he helps her boneless form to rise, aligns their hips and groans helplessly as she finally, _finally_ sinks down on his cock.

Now Haylen takes her time, savoring the sensation, baring her throat with her head tilted back and eyes closed shut; it’s been so long, and the reality that it’s him, him, _him_ until she’s ready to move.

He stills her by her hips, breathing heavily. “Wait… It’s been a while,” he shudders between his teeth.

She recognizes the warning in his words, but she finds that she doesn’t care – there’s going to be a _next,_ after they sort this out. Her eyes are half-lidded when she looks at him. His name spills from her lips, and she can’t tell if it’s plead or order as she wraps herself around him, because she doesn’t want to think; she wants to feel alive, wants to get drunk on him.

He moves into her wetness with a shaky grunt, and the rhythm they find at first is an awfully awkward thing, a scattered blend of urgency and barely constrained need, until it isn’t, and she meets his strokes in the cant of her hips until she’s shuddering with her release. Rhys follows her over the edge few frantic thrusts later, lost in the feverish chase of his own relief.

Spent she slumps against him, embraced in the blissful silence of afterglow and the safety of the circle of his arms. Her body just follows the steady rise and fall of his chest as his breath returns to normal, until it starts to get cold and she moves to untangle herself from him.

She feels a kiss to the crown of her head, and they might have this whole thing backwards, but it doesn’t feel like a mistake, a spur of the moment thing, because they have shared their truths and found solace in them. She can work with that. She wants to.

Her laugh is a content half-sigh against his neck, and she feels Rhys stir under her. There’s a hint of anxiety in his voice that he doesn’t quite manage to hide, the search for any sign of regret over this, over _them_. “Why are you laughing?”

“We’re such a mess.”

The look of utter confusion on his face only widens her smile, and she doesn’t offer any follow-up on that, but the absence of malice from her words puts him back at ease. So, with a shrug he says, “I’m glad that you recognize some of my good points.”

“I think I liked you better with the no-talking thing,” Haylen quips back.

*

They have a talk, properly, later that day, when the euphoria has died down enough to allow clearer minds.

Some things will change, some things will remain the same, and they have plenty of truths to unravel left, carried over from the times of _before_ , and they have all the time in the world for that now.  
They find room for each other amid their duties, with the understanding that there are always matters that come before this, but it’s a middle ground that they both agree with.

She has gained more than she has lost.

*

The green of her garden project is a constant reminder that she still hasn’t figured out the watering problem, she discovers as she’s in the middle of weeding out anything undesirable that dared to impose on that spot.  
Collecting rain water comes to her mind, but for this she’s short on barrels or tanks to put up, and even then the roof’s primary function is landing place, and if anyone asked her, she’d rather modify some structural points for additional defense. No room for her project there. And those are long term plans, and she needs a solution _now_.

And then she finds one.

She asks Rhys later, after dinner. “You still wanna make up for being an ass last week?”

He cringes at her blunt words, but he probably deserves it. “Yeah, sure. Anything you say,” he says and warily watches her break out into a big smirk. Uh oh.

“You know, I have a problem and your help would be great. My plants need watering, and someone needs to haul it from the river - until I find a better solution.” She smiles sweetly, and talks over his oncoming protest. “And any complaint I’ll hear might make me want delay finding a better solution.”

Rhys surrenders. “Anything you say.”

*

They don’t make a big deal out of telling Danse. He needs to know because he’s their superior, and yes, their friend, and he doesn’t really comment on the change between them, even if it’s hard not to notice. But it’s obvious that he’s happy for them, that they finally worked out things for the better. And most importantly, he no longer has to suffer through the tensions.

So Haylen just drowns in a blush when he allows himself a jibe about discreetness – purely just code for _out of sight_ and _out of earshot_ \- and holds them to the promise of no more _disagreements_.

*

As the Brotherhoods’ arrival draws closer, she starts to feel unrest. The police station will be filled with more people, _their_ people, and finally they’re going to move on. And it’s a truth that she longs for the safety of numbers, but a part of her is selfish enough to dread the loss of their intimacy born from shared hardships. The thought is ridiculous, but this part of her is against letting them intrude into their newfound home, and chip away at their memories and sorrows, overlay them with the new by each day that they move forward.

This strange period of early honeymoon will come to an end, too, and that’s alright, because it’s just another thing in the backward order of progress that they move along.

There’s still time until then.

So she finds him at the desk again, engrossed in taking apart a circuit board as she comes closer.

„Rhys,” she says and softly drags her fingertips across his neck, just below the line of his short-cropped hair. He stiffens and makes that split-second decision whether to open his mouth or to face her. When he looks up, his eyes are dark and she knows that she has won. She smiles. Her hand dances over his shoulder, down his arm to stop at his wrist. Pulled forward by her invitation he raises out of his chair, one last look at the delicate technology.

Rhys follows, because he wants to.

*

The looming shape of the airship is visible even from the police station. Haylen draws her gaze away from it and leans against the railing. Her two companions next to her mirror her solemn looks, as Recon Squad Gladius listens to the swelling sound of the oncoming vertibird.

Her heart is light, and her heart is heavy.

The Brotherhood of Steel has arrived.


End file.
